Imperfect World
by ImperfectAsterism
Summary: Sometimes, the most interesting events in one's life all come as a result of one decision...


If he had to describe Japan to someone who asked, then the answer that would emerge from his lips would be 'monotonous'.

The people of the Japanese islands were incredibly insular, and more often than not held a distaste for those from across the sea. Of course, this was not _always_ the case - there were more than a few people he had met who were affable enough that he'd struck a cordial relationship with them - but for the most part, it rang true. The Japanese people were rather unwilling to tolerate the mannerisms of who they deemed 'alien'.

It was inevitable that he would stand out, especially in the throng of other Japanese. Case in point - the middle school he attended. His face stood out amongst a sea of young Japanese teenagers, courtesy of his Filipino blood. That alone marked him as different; it would be easy to spot him in a crowd. The fact that he spent his time alone and not bothering to socialize with the rest only made him stand out that much more.

But his tics - verbal and physical - was what turned him from a curiosity to someone truly mythic among teacher and student alike. A distaste for lying manifested as telling the truth as it was; disregard for subtle threats turned to using the harshest words possible against the offender; and challenges (whether physical or intellectual) that came to him, he simply could not turn it down.

Added all together, it was little wonder that he was the 'black sheep' of the middle school.

Not that he minded, of course; his irritable personality _had_ gotten him into conflicts with other people, but it also drove them away from him so they didn't trigger his temper and more or less left him to his own devices and thoughts. He was sure that some people would look upon his predicament with no small amount of pity, but the arrangement was exactly what he wanted - isolation.

He did not care for the opinions of those he deemed annoyances (and it was no coincidence that his entire class and possibly the rest of the year fit neatly into that category), and was just glad to be left alone.

Others would've most likely either cracked under the pressure of being ostracized (which he was, but again, he didn't mind) - like that Jun Sakurada boy who stopped coming to school after some sort of embarrassing reveal about his hobbies that still eluded him to this day - but it was fine. He was here to learn, and he could take the hits to his prestige among the school body if it meant a chance at getting a proper education.

He never really did like Japan anyway.

Oh, sure, he was born and raised here, courtesy of his parents' journey to find work, but he had problems with it; the country was too _stiff_ , focused on cultivating a sense of togetherness that exposed people like him - or indeed, regular Japanese people with certain kinds of problems - quickly, like imperfections in a well-sculpted statue. That sense of togetherness was almost impossible to pierce as a _gaijin,_ and more often that not singled them out for a very subtle sort of discrimination that would be plain to see for native Japanese.

The nation stifled him, and he was waiting for the day he could travel abroad and away to another country. Wild America called, or perhaps the continent that shaped the modern world, Europe. Both were far better choices than _this_ place.

* * *

May you live in interesting times.

Ancient Chinese _curse_. Supposedly, that is; any Chinese one might find will claim ignorance of such a curse, and if they did, it would be from Western osmosis.

'Interesting', of course, bode no good for the recipient of the curse - unless they were of a strange sort who relished a great time of trials, tribulations and changes in their life. There probably weren't many of that sort in this era of complacency and stillness.

How the word manifested into reality took different forms; perhaps a great conflagration would light up the night sky and bathe the world in the fires of a third war; an accident that would lead one down a dark and dusty path that would shine some lights on truths best left unknown; being contacted by relatives and subsequently being dragged into a great conspiracy that spanned centuries; or perhaps it might be just one little thing that would eventually spiral out into something much, much greater.

In this case, it was the last one.

* * *

School had been far more boring than usual. The looming threat of tests put a great dampener on his peers' moods, and even the faculty didn't seem as enthused about it, much like their students. Presumably, the amount of paperwork that would come flooding in was the reason.

History was especially dreadful, as his teacher droned on about the (relatively) boring periods of the Sengoku Jidai. Even with his own burning passion for history, he had to clap inwardly and very sarcastically at his teacher's ability to turn one of his most loved subjects - English being his undisputed first - into a slog worthy of World War I's Western Front. This was hardly limited to History class, however; most of his subjects suffered from the lack of (what little) enthusiasm the teachers used to have.

Except English. Miss Ishikawa, bless her soul, was far too animated to let something as small as incoming tests put her down - not that her brand of enthusiasm would do anything to break through the doom and gloom that reigned as people began to pick up the pace regarding their studies after putting it off for so long in order to hang out with their friends or chase their various hobbies.

Still though, the day had seemingly stretched on for several millennia, as if time had slowed to a crawl specifically to torture and taunt the students by making the end of the day feel so far away.

This had the unfortunate side effect of bored classmates attempting to strike up conversation with him during the break periods. Being who he was, he did his best to deflect their attentions from him so he could stew in his own thoughts as he always did. He was not uncivilized; he was perfectly capable of maintaining a conversation without any sort of vitriol in his voice. But his attempts to deflect them only seemed to attract the attention of the rest of his class, much to his annoyed exasperation.

He could understand somewhat; his status as the black sheep of school and his reputation as someone who would lash out in anger if provoked or even approached juxtaposed with his (almost) pleasant conversations with his classmates.

He couldn't claim to have _enjoyed_ it, but he supposed it was a start from being a self-enforced isolationist. He swore he saw one of the younger members of the school committee giving him a thumbs up through the classroom windows while he was engaged in conversation - something that, at once, gave way for irritation and _satisfaction_.

Nevertheless, tedious as it was, the conversations did help pass the time between break periods and transitions into the next class.

When the bell finally did ring to signal the end of the day, he moved among the masses of students to make his way home, exchanging a few muttered goodbyes here and there to his classmates before departing, freed of school for the next few hours.

* * *

"I'm home..."

Not that there was anyone to greet him, of course. It was a traditional Japanese greeting when retreating back to one's abode, but to him, it served no purpose other than reminding him that his parents weren't coming home for a year.

A frown tugged at his lips at the thought as he set his bag down and kicked off his shoes. Truth be told, it was a rather strange prospect - being left alone for an entire year was both terrifying and exhilarating. Terrifying, because he had lived under the guidance of his mother and father for, well, his entire life up to this point. Exhilarating, because he was liberated from his parents' watchful gazes, and was free to do what he wanted.

Of course, freedom from his parents while they toured the world - even if it was for one year - came with strings attached. The string in _this_ particular case was that he had to learn to look after himself. No good having fun if you were going to starve to death because one didn't bother to learn how to cook something edible, after all.

He declined relying on cheap instant food; a growing teenager like him was going to need much more than ramen to sustain himself. Seeking part-time tied into this; how was he going to make his food if he didn't have the money to buy ingredients?

A sigh escaped his lips as he trudged into the kitchen, eyeing the cupboard and trying to remember if he'd restocked it with what he needed for the week while turning the With every passing day, he felt as if he could empathize with his parents just a bit more.

His dreams of being free from his parents' gaze back when he was just a young boy, where everything seemed to go smoothly and without any problems did not hold up _at all_ in the real world, and he cursed his past self's foolishness and naivety as he opened the curtains, turned on the television and set about making his favorite meal, Filipino beef steak.

The tunes of his music blared in his ears as he pulled out the various instruments that were required in this task of his. Knives, pans, ingredients, the works. The kettle whined as he poured himself a cup of steaming hot coffee. His parents would've disapproved heavily of him drinking coffee, but they weren't here to enforce their rule of 'no coffee'.

 _Besides_ , he thought as he took a sip, flinching slightly as the heated beverage burned the tip of his tongue, _I've got a lot of study to do tonight. Can't let a single hour go to waste._

He'd only just laid out the raw beef and pulled out a knife to cut it into nice little chunks when a sharp knock from the door resounded through the house.

"Coming!" he called, taking off his apron and stowing it away as he marched to the door. "Who'd be knocking on the door at this time of day, anyway? Probably a delivery or something, I swear..."

Now in front of the door, he looked through the eyehole that his father had installed a week before they had departed-

-and saw a _humanoid_ _rabbit in a suit,_ bowing politely.

He staggered back from the door, a curse tumbling from his lips as he reasserted himself. "What the-"

Another look back through the eyehole - nothing.

The door opened in a great swing as he stepped forward into the open, brown eyes flickering around the landscape to affirm that yes, there _had_ been a bunny man in a suit outside of his house. Alas, there was no sign of him.

He rubbed his eyes. "Alright, that was fffffffrickin'-" he bit his lip, "weird. What was that?"

Turning his head to look around once more for affirmation, he shook his head as he walked back inside, rubbing at his eyes all the while.

 _Just a hallucination_. _I should probably go to sleep earlier instead of trying to be studious and reading textbooks at 3 in the morning_.

Closing the door with a muted click, he trudged back to the kitchen, intent on finishing his food and serving it up so he could abate his hunger - his stomach was already starting to growl, after all.

He only made it two steps into the kitchen before his hand shot out and grabbed a letter that _wasn't_ there on the kitchen tabletop when he went to answer the door.

A bead of cold sweat formed on his temple. This was getting far too strange for his tastes.

The letter itself was normal enough - though he did note the wax seal that kept its' contents from spilling out into the world. What was in the letter, on the other hand, was a different story entirely.

"Wind. Do not wind." he muttered, pulling the paper closer, as if some hidden passage would reveal itself if he stared at it closely and long enough.

Two options, with no context behind them. Was this some sort of practical joke? Or did it hint at something else?

He had half a mind just to crumple the paper up and throw it in the bin. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old adage went. Yet, there was _something_ that kept him from doing so - he wouldn't go so far as to say that he was being controlled, but rather, there was a feeling that he _had_ to make a decision, rather than just push it out of the way and carry on.

But the question was: what should he do?

Shuffling through his bag and producing a pen, he set the letter down on the kitchen tabletop while he took a long draught from his mug, drumming the end of the pen against the paper all the while.

A sigh. "I can't believe I'm getting worked up over a _choice_. Screw it. Nothing will come from this..."

The sound of pen scratching on paper lasted a bare second, but to him it felt like an eternity.

Wind.

Throwing the pen to the side, he picked up the letter again, raising it to the kitchen light in hopes of finding something hidden on it, but alas, much like earlier, there was none to be revealed. He pulled open one of his kitchen's drawers, the cutlery clinking as he neatly placed the letter in the drawer before slamming it shut. He'd get back to it later - he was already planning to return it to... _whoever_ it was that placed it on the tabletop in the first place.

Stretching in place and cracking his neck with a satisfying pop, he nodded. "Well, that's done. Time to get back to cooking."

 _Clunk_.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound, turning his head so fast he swore he has gotten whiplash.

There _\- right there_ \- on his coffee table, was a case that very much _wasn't there before_. Chills ran up his spine. This was unnatural.

Carefully maneuvering his way to the coffee table and ignoring the protests of his stomach, he looked over the case, noting the gold edges and the lock. The wood seemed battered, yet pristine, almost gleaming under the clean white light of his living room. His fingertips brushed the wood from edge to edge, before stopping at the lock.

With a click, it unlocked. A sharp exhale, and he lifted the cover.

The doll was _exquisite_ , he could say that much. Curled up in the case, it was almost like she was sleeping. He wasn't much for toys these days, but even he had to admire how well made the doll was. The dress brought to mind gothic lolita fashion, featuring inverted crosses on its' design and sleeves that were very much appropriate on a Victorian era dress. Black and white dominated the dress, adding to the style. But what truly struck him were the long tresses of white hair that flowed down to the doll's waist.

He scratched his head.

"...the hell?"

He reached out, grabbing the doll and lifting it up, bringing it before his eyes and turning it over. It really was exquisite - everything about it screamed 'antique and professionally made'. Even he could tell that this doll was probably going to net a lot of money if he decided to sell it off on Ebay or somewhere. If he hadn't seen the doll joints and the fact that they were so *slow* he would've honestly mistaken them for actual humans, a feat that the creator of the doll would've no doubt been proud of.

But the doll's quality begged the question: why did it and its' case end up on his coffee table? The more he thought about it, the more he grew more resigned to the fact that he really was dealing with something not quite mundane. The rabbit man was only the beginning.

A pause, then a pit opened in his stomach as he cast his gaze into the interior of the case and spotted a gold key. Turning over the doll yielded a small gold nub at its' back.

He shot up from his couch and jotted over to the cutlery drawer he stashed the letter in - only to find it gone.

"Shiiiiiit." he breathed. So the letter and the case (plus its' doll) were somehow related - but it didn't justify why the letter just disappeared when it was in the drawer a scant five minutes ago.

He turned his gaze back to the golden key still in the case, untouched, thoughts brewing in his mind as he attempted to justify a logical conclusion as to why this was all happening. Wandering back over, he took a deep breath as he picked up the golden key.

"Here goes nothing." he murmured, slotting in the key and winding the doll up.

Once.  
Twice.  
Thrice.

On the third, the doll began to move jerkily in his grip, causing him to yelp in surprise and set it down on the table gently. Shakily, the doll began to stand on its' own two feet, before falling still after asserting it's balance, head hung low.

Then it (she, his mind corrects absentmindedly) looked up, red eyes taking in his form, while black wings flared from her back.

* * *

 _Hi there. I've had this lying in my hard drive for quite a while now, and after finding this site, I thought 'why not?' It's also my first story ever, so please be gentle._

 _Be aware that this is a self insert. I promise that I won't give myself magical powers or anything - that defeats the purpose of this writing exercise and the plot!_

 _I hope to see you all soon._


End file.
